Island Nation
by wintry
Summary: The eccentricities of Azkaban, its own life, an island nation. Looking back on the war-torn days when you could enjoy a simple rivalry.


**Island Nation**

_Two men started walking started talking 'bout better days_

_one__ says to the other he'd do it all again...if I knew I would_

_And now__ I found it found I adored it_

_I didn't want this can somebody help me see?_

_And now__ I feel that...feel that I've been there_

_I didn't need this can somebody help me breathe?_

_Here we are again just face to facing each other another day_

_who__ wins...well who cares it all ends up the same since I knew I would_

_And now__ I found it found I adored it_

_I didn't want this can somebody help me see?_

_And now__ I feel that...feel that I've been there_

_I didn't need this can somebody help me stand?_

_And now I told him already warned him_

_I didn't want this can somebody help breathe?_

_It's always them that I wanna be, wanna see_

_if__ I could pack my life in a moment_

_I wanna know do you want me to go?_

_gonna__ live my life never ending_

_never__ stop myself from pretending_

_that__ you always knew _

_that__ I never could_

_All I ever really wanted was_

_to__ be the same but equal treatment never comes and_

_here__ we go again_

_all__ I ever really wanted was to be like you_

_so__ perfect...so worthless_

_if__ I could take it all back, think again, I would_

_-Nickelback, "Breathe"_

It's a fine view, a view of the ocean for miles around and empty sky for miles above. The tang of the sea is tangible in the air; you inhale deeply and then draw out your chair to sit, legs crossed quietly at the ankles.

The other man doesn't bother to sit at the table, which is three-legged and meant for prisoners taking their monthly air. He stares out to sea with the wind wrestling his hair into fine tangles like gossamer nets, and you look on and think he looks like a sailor after his first storm. Realizing that the good sea is not always good and sometimes a bloody bitch at that. 

Perhaps he resembles a sailor but he commands nothing, not even the prison keys he has been pleading for, now, for years. Yes, Draco had learned humility in the short months they called battle. And when he pleads the guard laughs and walks away, keys jangling as they leave him behind. His outstretched arm always remains for a moment, with the open palm thrust out beyond the bars, before creeping backwards in shame. 

You had watched, through everything, though choice was out of the question. Hah, choice. You would've had more if your eyes had been pinned open and your hands nailed behind your back. Without it, you had seen Draco's sneer soften into discontent, restlessness, empty despair. 

And he had seen it in your eyes, reflected back. 

Madness settles slower here, sans Dementors. The process is deadly and deliberate, dulling like cloth meant to stifle the sound of a pounding heart. There is no sure beginning, there cannot be an end, and it is difficult to say whether it has even begun. You could drive yourself feral simply wondering. 

It must be the atmosphere. Azkaban, with the sound of waves breaking against the rock cliffs in faithful succession. The name itself sounds broken and clumsily repaired. And it is home, they tell themselves. It is life. They hush the part about imprisonment. 

Azkaban, an island nation. 

Out here, the waves are near deafening. You pick pebbles out of your shoes and a gull cries overheard, circling thrice before turning to sea, heading for the mainland. Draco looks up at it for a moment, but not for long; it can be dangerous to bare your throat in Azkaban. Instinctively, he tucks his chin down into his collar and follows the bird with his eyes before settling on you. He mouths something you can't understand, and then repeats it at your request. 

"I was just saying, Potter, how I plan to kill you when we get out of this place." 

Surprised, you toss your pebbles aside. The cliffs are covered in them and it is impossible to tell them apart once scattered. "I...I'm not sure if that's going to happen."

"Of course it will. It shouldn't be too difficult, considering the pathetic condition you're in-"

"The condition _we're_ in," you reply. He sniffs. You hunch forward in your chair, elbows balanced on spread knees. "That's not the point, Malfoy." 

"What is the point then?" he snarls just like he's wanted to for so long now, whirling on you. Lately he's been holding back, thinking it pointless. Lately it hasn't been about winning. "Tell me what the hell the point is and perhaps my days will be a bit more bearable!"

You laugh, the wind sweeps it away. "There's nothing to bear."

"There's always something to bear," he says instantly. 

"There's nothing, Malfoy," you insist softly. "It's the same each and every sodding day; only this monotony." 

"It's bad enough as it is. I can't stand monotony and I can't stand you, Potter."

You know what you want to say. You think, another lie isn't worth this. You go on despite it. "Funny. I'd forgotten." 

Draco kicks over the table and then grabs you by the fringe. No, you don't like that, with your scar exposed and red to the sky. But maybe you want it anyway. 

And when your attentions stray, he jerks your head back farther and narrows carnivorous eyes at you, threatening; the seat tips with the force. "_Then remember, damn you! Why the hell can't you understand, are you blind and deaf and mute all at once?! We might as well be dead for all that we've got to hold on to! So don't you dare forget! Those days are all I have left to live for, do you hear me, Potter?" _

"Fuck off, don't touch me- !"

A guard appears at the doorway, yards off, a tiny figure at the prison gates with his hand on his wand just in case. At the sight of him, Draco releases you, sickened. The chair teeters back into place and he strides to the cliffs' edge, peering downwards without any sense of vertigo or care.

You can't stand silence because, when it's calm enough, all you can hear is the waves. "Malfoy..."

He toes the edge, features shadowed with the noon sun lighting the silver in his hair. He chuckles as he sways with the wind, forward and backwards, and you wish you could bring yourself to concern. "It had to come to this, did it? You and me, dying here on this island prison. Rotting away."

"It could be worse."

"Don't tell me about the worst. Come here, I'm tired of shouting over this wind, you prat. Remember that last game we played?"

You stand and move towards him, taking measured steps and kicking pebbles all the while. "How could I forget? It was a bloody historic moment. You and your Slytherins finally won against me for the first time."

The corners of Draco's mouth turn up slightly at the edges, hinting at a smile. Those were better days. "Yes, that's right. I caught the Snitch. Your expression was priceless."

You find yourself standing beside him for a moment and it seems...almost companionable, this feeling, the hazy warmth from Draco's narrow shoulders. "It must have been nice to leave for war with that triumph." 

Draco glances over at you impassively. "Good memories are few and far between. You've got enough as it is, don't sound so cheated."

"You know me too well."

What a laugh, humorless and ragged. "Know thy enemy, of course. Besides. All that's left is you and me, Potter, and I bloody well don't know myself."

"Don't sound so cynical," you reply sharply. It gets his attention. He turns his gaze on you and he has the sort of gaze that makes everything outside of it trivial in the world. 

"Well, hero. You're one to talk," he says, and nothing more. No one has called you a hero in years, not even derisively. He turns back to his ocean. 

Then the silence comes and you can't bear it. "Remember flying? The feasts? Hogsmeade visits?"

"Of course," he scoffs. "I can't think of anything I want more right now than my broom."

You pause. "Freedom?" 

"Let's not think too impossibly, Potter." He stops, hesitant. "Could you...catch hold of my hand? I'm tempted to fall." 

You reach out for his hand without objection and he takes it. "Why don't you then?" You shut your eyes and see the sunlight through them. His grip is tentative so you clasp his hand tighter, in case. "If there's nothing left. If I'm all you have left to keep you standing. You hate me." 

He gives you a brilliant smile, dazzling; you can feel it with your eyes closed and you open them again in wonder. Letting go of his hand comes naturally. You look on as he tips forward, so slowly, balancing on his toes until he is too far over the water for saving from the rocks and breaking waves. 

The chains hold him back, clamped tightly about his wrists. He spreads his arms wide as if to soar and shouts so it echoes over the water and over this island, this lonely prison nation. The guards are sprinting towards you and he looks back with his chin held high and a laugh in his storm-tossed eyes. 

"It works the same vice versa. Think twice before you say you want me to go."   

Perhaps, you decide, watching him fly- perhaps I'll hold on awhile longer.


End file.
